Broken Wings
by Chuck's Prophet
Summary: "For years, he kept his feelings bottled up. Until today when a certain wide-eyed customer came into his shop." Sam runs a local tattoo shop and Cas is his sole clientele. This is a story of two men who come together to face their inner demons and bond over ink. Rated T for mature themes including sex and cutting.


**Broken Wings**

A/N: For those who have suffered the burdens life is cruel in handing us. Stay strong.

**Corinthians 4:16**_: Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day._

The bell above the door chimed as someone passed through the threshold. Sam inclined his head slightly at the sound, even though he couldn't see beyond the cracked door. He didn't have anyone down for an appointment other than the rather inquisitive girl in his chair. Her hair was almost as fiery as the questions she rattled off _("So are you seeing anyone?" "What are you gonna do about that hair? Have you ever thought about blue highlights?"),_ but she meant well.

_"You look like hell."_

_ Sam's eyes were slumped over dark shadowy masses of pale skin. His lips were slightly cracked from excessive biting and his hair looked like it had been through a tumble press cycle. "Nice to see you too, Charlie."_

Charlie Bradbury was a regular client at Blood Brothers. She was actually an intern at the shop before she got ink done, because hell, she could draw caricatures better than he or Benny ever could. (Sam had more of a knack for realism and Benny's was gore.) But, unfortunately, Charlie found that her true talents lied in cinematography and aspired to the next Peter Jackson. Over the long and hectic summers when the business was up to its shoulders in fresh epidermis and Charlie wasn't off in LA at some film festival, the cartoonist would assist at Blood Brothers. Her lively attitude and keenness on making people smile attracted the clientele and there wasn't any harm in having an extra helping hand, anyway. She also wasn't as intimidating with less tattoos and more skin.

_ "Charlie Bradbury wants the map of Mordor on her thigh. How am I not more surprised?"_

_ Charlie shrugged as a small smile crept to her face. "Hey, you gotta have something to brag about at Comic Con."_

"Aren't you curious?" she asked quietly.

Sam was almost done shading in the Mountains of Shadow. "About what, what Galadriel is going to think of the new ink?" he laughed.

"No, the dreamy guy that just walked in," she said, raising a crafty brow.

Sam still hadn't looked up. "How do you know it's a guy?"

"Because I actually look with my Elven eyes," she pointed out, folding her arms over her petite chest. Sam's chocolate hair with blonde strands interweaved fell over his face, hiding the eye roll he was giving her as he started in on the _M _in Mountains_._ Unfortunately, the ambiguity of his sexuality came to a close when a handsome client named Adam Milligan walked through the door. He claimed that he, in tribute to his family crest, wanted a cobra snake wrapping around his upper left leg. Sam had to strain to hide the tent forming underneath his jeans and it didn't help that Charlie was grinning ear-to-ear and going on to the man about how it might take hours because Sam was a stickler for details.

Eventually, when Charlie's gray eyes became impassable, he said, "If he doesn't have an appointment, he'll just have to wait like everyone else."

"Or we can always finish this bad boy up tomorrow."

This caught the artist's attention. He withdrew his hand from her skin and peered over at her with a new look of fascination. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Comic Con isn't for another week. We can finish it in a couple of days. Besides, I have to do some extra stitching on my Tauriel cosplay that I've been neglecting since the turn of the century."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the girl. "How hot is he?"

"On a scale of one to Mount Doom, he would burn through the earth's core," she said, keeping her gaze steadfast on the waiting room. Sam had to laugh, even just a little. Charlie was the kind of girl that was raised on pop culture references. He wouldn't be surprised if her first words sounded more like Sméagol and less like a six month old child.

So Sam reluctantly let her leave with the sick satisfaction that she came in with and began cleaning up his only open station for his new client. It was unlikely that he would be in the chair today, given that it's typically a one to three day process for a free sketch (depending on the intricacy of the design and just how large it was), but it wouldn't hurt to have the place look decent if he did happen to end up in his chair.

He went to the mirror to the left of his workbench and began musing over his look. Yeah, he could afford some foundation to cover up the discoloration under his eyes and a decent comb to run his hair through a couple of times. Due to the time crunch, he used his fingers instead to push stray hairs behind his ear and stretched his eyes a couple of times to look more… well, not undead.

When he made his way to the front desk, it didn't take long for him to rest his eyes on Mount Doom. He was the only clientele in the place, sitting in the back with his hands folded in-between his legs, like a diffident kid waiting on his orthodontist. He hated to admit that his best friend was right, but Charlie had a good eye for a lesbian. The man had dark sex hair and bright blue eyes under black frames. He wore an open neck t-shirt with a blue scarf to coordinate his skinny jeans and complimented his eyes all too well.

"Welcome to Blood Brothers, can I help you?"

The man's eyes widened at the sound of the voice. He scrambled over to the counter in a way that would have been deemed awkward had he not been so cute.

"Hi, I'm Castiel," he said, extending his hand. That was new. No customer ever lent out their hand just out of courtesy. He shook his hand anyway and introduced himself as Sam, noting the firm grip that the man returned him with. He must have been in sales. Or studying in, judging by how relatively young he looked.

"What can I do you for?" Sam asked.

The man—Castiel—stumbled over his words. "Oh, I-uh, well, I have a design," he said, reaching into his pocket. A few seconds later, he pulled out a slip of paper with foreign carvings on it. "Do you think you can do that?"

"Uh, yeah, I mean it's just a few letters, shouldn't be too hard," Sam said.

Castiel knitted his eyes together before glancing down at what he had pulled out and retracted the paper.

"Sorry, that was a grocery note," he said with a small laugh. Sam's lips parted at that. He was pretty sure the writing wasn't anything from this earth (or the guy just had awful penmanship), but he disregarded it when there was a new slip of paper in front of him.

It was an elaborate ink but luckily in his range of expertise. (Besides, even if it wasn't, he would find a way to draw it. He would burn in Hell before he would hand this one over to Benny. For once, it wasn't about the money or the experience. This time it was just the mere thought of having the opportunity to see the man before him splayed half naked on his chair.) "Oh—I, yeah I can get that done today since you have the picture. It might cost you a hefty fee, though. We're looking at anywhere close to five or six hundred."

"Money isn't a problem," he replied. "I can pay you upfront, if that's necessary."

Sam nodded somewhat confused. "Cas—can I call you Cas? Have you ever gotten ink done before?" Cas shook his head like he had been scolded. Sam laughed to break the tension—and because it was probably one of the cutest things he had seen in a while. "It's okay, man. I'm just kind of surprised that you'd want something like this as your first tattoo."

"What, is it bad?"

Sam shook his head and tried to ignore the puppy dog look he was receiving in response. "No, it's—it's actually the opposite. It's really beautiful." _and crazy big. _He took in the picture again. He was thinking the wings were going to start just below his neck, down to the end of his shoulder blades, then ascend up and onto the backs of his upper arms. He might even add some body butter in-between each feather completely free of charge to give it that angelic shine.

He hadn't realized that Cas was turning profusely scarlet and he was just standing there like a complete moron looking at him. "I'll get out the papers, basically just a few medical details, and get you set up in the back," he said, clearing his throat. "I strongly recommend using the restroom now because you'll be in the chair for almost six hours. You're not allergic to latex, right?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Good, makes my job easier. I'll meet you in my room in twenty. Do you have any questions?"

Cas pursed his lips in thought, staring from the new stack of papers to the tattooist before shaking his head. "No, nothing comes to mind."

"Not nervous?" asked Sam.

Cas scrunched his lips together and shook his head. "Not really."

"Are you queasy around blood?" (It really had nothing to do with tattooing. Sam just wanted to see if he could scare the guy.)

"As long as it doesn't get on my new shirt, I'm fine."

"You're sure?" Sam said. "I might have to strap you down to an electric chair if you get compulsive."

"Make sure to lock the door behind you."

The taller man had to laugh this time. He basically passed inspection in his book. "You sure are one complaisant son of a bitch," he said, raising a pierced eyebrow.

Cas chuckled, "I'd hate to get on the bad side of the guy who's using permanent ink on my skin."

"Well, from my view, I'm not seeing a whole lot of bad on your end," Sam said, winking.

"Oh please, your animosity is suffocating," Cas said dryly, but the blush from moments ago crept back into his stoic features and Sam had to laugh. This was going to be the best six hours of his life.

* * *

"Do you mind if I take off my shirt?"

Cas was sitting in Sam's chair, back exposed to the open air. He had his arms dangling over the back of Sam's chair. He had a beautiful torso with deep golden crests and summits that would make even the Grand Canyon crumble. He was also fortunate enough to see his backside all the way down to the start of his jutting hips.

"Not at all," he said, shrugging his shoulders. (Although, he did look somewhat nervous, arbitrating from the elongated gulp that he took prior to his answer. But that only flattered Sam further.)

He desperately needed to liberate from the tight fabric because the AC hardly ever functioned properly in the small shack. Usually Benny would take the initiative to climb on top of the building to rewire or re-whatever-the-hell-you-do-to-fix-a-heavy-component. (Sam's was an artist, not a repairman.) But Benny was working the gruesome late night shifts and, as a result, Sam was stuck with an exhaust sputtering out heat instead of coldness during a ninety-degree Kansas summer.

"Nice tattoos."

Sam glanced down at his own bare torso and rubbed absentmindedly at his arm. "Oh, thanks."

Cas turned his head. "You sound like you've never been paid the compliment before."

"Actually, you're the first," he said, loading his machine. It wasn't a fairly common compliment to get paid for. Usually, if anything, people would look at them in disgust or write them off as a form of "self-mutilation."

The other man looked truly astounded. "Wait—really? I mean, I don't mean to sound pretentious, but how can someone disdain something so natural in its own right? Tattoos are a form of art, not chaos."

"You sound like you're pretty passionate about the business," Sam commented.

Cas's eyes widened, unveiling those bright sapphires. "Are you kidding me? I live for _Ink Master_. I've always wanted a tattoo, but my folks are devout people. I had to wait until I was out of the house to even get two hundred yards from a shop."

"Ah, so that would explain the wings." Sam wasn't a very pious person—_okay_, scratch that wasn't one at _all_—but he could understand waiting until legal age to get a tattoo. Coming from a man with a left arm covered in ink and then some, he knew what a responsibility it was to maintain a tattoo. It took a mature adult to have one, not some fifteen-year-old girl who came running in just because she wanted a tramp stamp of her favorite actor's name.

Cas nodded. "I wanted out of my house for a lot of reasons, but I never stopped believing. I see this as a way to get closer to Him." He paused, chuckling and rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "That probably sounds insane."

"I don't think so at all," Sam said, pulling up a chair next to him. "If anything, I think it's incredibly brave that you're doing this. You wouldn't believe how many people walk in here thinking that they're gonna get a tattoo until they look at the size of this thing (he gestured to the gun in his hand) and sprint for the exit. Besides, most people I tattoo are doing it to keep up with the latest trends or whatever. You actually have a viable reason to show for your ink, and that's the best kind of person."

The corners of Cas' mouth quirked up into a shy smile. He apparently never thought of it that way. He took a moment to traipse his eyes along Sam's incredible upper half. He had a decent six pack thing going all the way down to his pierced diaphragm and his arms were rounded off in big bulks of muscle, one completely tailored with tattoos. The sleeve started at his shoulder blade and extended well below his forearm. Most of the ink was comprised of roads extending into detailed maps and flags and even roses. The one thing he picked out of the myriad colors was two gender-specific skulls, below them were streamers labeled _Jess_ and the other _Dean._

"I take it you're that type of person," Cas said, gesturing to the display. Sam didn't have to look down to see what he was pointing at. He asked who they were, then immediately rued his decision seeing Sam's jaw tighten. "I'm sorry, that was really uncalled for. You don't have to answer that; I'm an idiot."

Sam's face was still hard but he turned to look at the younger man. "No, it's okay, really. No one ever really asks about it. Jess is my girlfriend—or _was_ my girlfriend. There was a house fire and she uh, she didn't make it out." He paused, letting that sink in. That made sense with the flames engulfing around the blonde-haired skull. "And Dean, he's the reason I'm alive. He pulled me from the fire before I had time to react, but he wasn't so lucky either."

"Dean was—?"

Sam bit down on his lip-ring, nodding in recognition with a memory that Cas couldn't see. "My brother," he replied.

"Oh Sam, I'm so sorry," Cas said. He felt like the idiot he claimed he was, only bigger. He and Sam were hitting it off so well, and then he had to throw a wrench into the conversation.

"It's okay, Cas,"—somehow saying his name eased the intensity of the memory of the night—"it wasn't your fault. It was a freak accident. Those things happen, right?"

Cas nodded. "Absolutely, but that doesn't mean I can't feel empathy for you. I had a brother, too, once. Name was Gabriel. He enlisted in the military; fought alongside a hundred other guys he called brothers… until one of them shot him through the head. He went too far off base. The guy thought he was an Afghani."

The way said it sent shivers down Sam's spine. It was so deadpan. He could tell that he didn't just hand out the story like a pamphlet. "I'm sorry for your loss, too."

"What's 'past or present'?" he said.

The taller man glanced down unexpectedly and rested his eyes on a wider banner across the inside of his forearm. It intersected with the same road that crossed paths with Jessica and Dean's skulls. "It's something Dean used to tell me. A couple months after our dad died, he found me in the bathroom with blow." His voice wavered on the next sentence. "I kind of broke down because I hated him seeing me so weak and I instantly regretted it when his eyes glazed over. But he held me even though he was crying too and told me that there wasn't anything past or present that he would put in front of me that would make him love me any less."

He paused when he realized he hadn't looked Cas the entire time he spoke. For years, he kept his feelings bottled up—he even insisted on doing his own sleeve. Until today when a certain wide-eyed customer came into his shop. There was something different about him, something he felt comfortable divulging his innermost thoughts to.

"It sounded like you really looked up to him," was all Cas could say.

Sam nodded reticently. "Yeah, he practically raised me after Dad passed. Our mom was already gone and Dean was sixteen, so I guess he was doing his best to fill in for his shoes. We even got these matching tattoos," he said, pointing to the pentagram over his left breast. "It's a symbol of protection."

"I can't imagine. I mean Gabe passed away by the time I started college so I was already going through my crossing-into-adulthood-independence phase. Besides, my parents always carried the torch over _his _head."

Sam looked up suddenly. _He and I aren't too different._

"But anyway," Cas began, tossing his head to the side, "I think your tattoos are—well, beautiful. They hold a story that I could only be half as fortunate to have with mine."

The artist perked up at that comment and began shifting his attention to the gun still resting firmly in his other hand. He tapped the tip of it a few times with his gloved finger and leaned in close to say, "You already do."

* * *

The analog clock hanging above their heads read a punctual seven o' clock by the time Sam set down his gun. Cas, bless his heart, was doing just about everything in his power not show any sign of pain through small conversation. He relaxed his muscles when the artist took a few minutes to burnish the design with body butter—which, despite contrary beliefs, wasn't more than fancy grease in a flat cylinder—but it did do an excellent job at soothing skin after countless hours of ink work. The man in his chair had all but arched his back at the new skin-on-skin contact, which was impossible for Sam not to laugh at.

All in all, he was a good patient for a first-timer and the tattoo turned out to be one of Sam's personal best. He debated against using state-of-the-art green ink and traded it for a bright blue instead to atone to Cas' eyes. (It was a personal choice since Cas was more than okay with his judgment as a five-year tattooist.) He used black only to outline the contour of each exterior feather for that 3D look and even interwove some purple into it. He somehow looked even better with the added emblem and Cas knew it, judging by the Catshire smile he was giving him through the hand mirror.

"I love it," he breathed, taking a good moment to bask in the art before handing the object back to him. Sam always had to admit that at the end of the day it wasn't as much about the money as he originally presumed; it was about the response. He enjoyed working if it meant bringing a smile to someone's face, especially if that face belonged to a blue-eyed sophomore who looked like he just witnessed a genie rise from a rusty lamp.

Sam smiled back, spinning the mirror in his hands a few times before setting it aside. "I'm glad."

Before Sam could turn to remove his gloves, Cas' hand was wrapping around his. Just below an inner-arm tattoo that read '_Familia ante __ceteros__'_ (which, at least according to his freshman Latin class, translated to '_Family before all others'_), was a mark like no other. He traced his ghost-like fingers around the thick rubicund lines that intersected one another.

"I take it these aren't part of the collection," Cas said quietly.

Sam hadn't averted his gaze on Cas' hand. His touch was soothing, somehow made him forget about those scars that he'd long since buried along with other demoralizing memories of the past. He closed his eyes just as they all came rushing back—_"Sam, get the hell out of here!"—_and breathed in a shaky sigh, forcing back tears. Even after three years, the sting of yesterday was still all-too prevailing.

Just as he was about to breathe in again, there were a pair of hands on his face and a warm set of lips crashing onto his. He opened his eyes only to confirm that it actually was Cas and before he could even think about anything else, was leaning into the new contact with everything he had. The kiss itself was chaste, but it was enough. It felt so natural, almost like breathing.

"What was that for?" Sam asked curiously, hands resting on his waist.

Cas smiled. "For fighting the good fight," he said, pushing down the waistline of his jeans to reveal the start of a thin red line across his hipbone, "and for the amazing tattoo, of course."

"You know, a simple thank you and a dinner date would have sufficed."

Cas cocked his head in mock-surprise. "Wait—you mean this whole time you were using me for a meal ticket?"

"Guilty as charged." The tattooist ducked down to kiss him again, this time swiping his tongue across his lips. Cas leaned in again, wrapping his arm around his neck. They stayed like that for a while, at least until the sun went down.

Sam had to make sure to add a sign out front that read, "Accepting walk-ins."


End file.
